The Beautiful Misfits, page 20
Pog offered a half-smile. “You’d be wonderful persuading the tough current administration. It’s proven that in more lenient countries, the drug addiction rate for the harder stuff can’t touch our rates here. We’re four times higher than in Europe. I’m telling you, Josie, it’s all about their environment and not self or societal punishment.”
For the first time in over a year, Josie wished she had a mic and cameraman. “You have me convinced.” But what she thought about most was Finley, visualizing him here on this beautiful land, learning new skills and ways to manage his inner pain and cravings.
“If the environment reeks,” Pog said, “people are going to use more drugs. Every addict in the world should have a reason to get out of bed every morning. Something to do. A purpose. Threatening doesn’t work. We should all be saying, ‘I love you and if you need me, I’ll be there.’”
His words shot through her heart—a love story to everyone broken. She fought tears and picked at her pastry. “You don’t need any coaching,” she said and met his eyes. “You’ve got this interview. Just show them what you’ve shown me. Let’s hope it goes viral and the big networks pick it up.”
Pog leaned forward. He reached for her hand and her skin blazed beneath his palm. Flashbacks of that night at the Westin strobed. Whatever had happened, Josie almost wanted an encore. “Let me walk you to your truck.” Before they made it outside to the parking lot, he asked if she’d come to his office. For what, she had no idea, but she agreed. Well, maybe she did have some idea on a base level. When he shut the door and gently pulled her toward him, she didn’t resist. “Josie, sweet Josie,” he whispered. “I’ve always wanted a second chance to—”
“I can’t,” she said, retreating, though her body was sending an entirely different message.
“Why not?”
She left without giving him an answer. Because she had none to give. She’d been besotted—as her mother would say—with this man since she’d seen him striding across the stage telling his audience why addicts need love.
The next day, Josie’s hands were deep in the dough when it hit her. Her entire body rumbled like a quake’s aftershock. It was Finley. Something wasn’t right and her intuition never lied.
She removed her trembling hands from the cookie batter and was washing them in the sink when a second jolt stole her breath. Light-headed and panting, she sat at the kitchen table where Dottie colored and ate Goldfish crackers. She had that awful brittle feeling, as if her bones would splinter.
It was a full moon, a blood moon eclipse, shining red and visible only in the eastern hemisphere. But even though she couldn’t see it, she felt its stirrings in that deepest part of her.
Her soul seemed to brew. A tug, a premonition riding on the hem of her brain, all but told her Finley was close to death. She sat trying to catch her breath, and at the same time, hatched a plan to call him from an unrecognizable phone.
The lady with the dog. Yes, she’d compose herself and borrow the woman’s landline. As she considered the plan, her cell rang, and music from Ambrosia filled the air. She jumped and seized the phone, which slipped in her damp palm. “Finley!” she cried, scrambling to answer.
“Hey, Mom,” he said as if they’d just spoken the other day, as if he were a normal son calling his normal mother for a normal conversation. “How’s it going?”
Tears sprang fast. “I’m so glad you called. Oh my God, I’ve been so worried.” She had to be careful, tone down the fear in her voice and say the right words, or he’d hang up.
“I got your messages about coming to Asheville,” he said but didn’t elaborate.
“I’ve always had a place for you wherever I’ve lived,” she said and silently thanked God she was finally hearing from her boy and not just through texts or the random voice mail. Dottie ran into the room, and it wouldn’t be long before she caught on and begged to talk to her brother. Josie eased from the table and entered the foyer.
“I know, Mom,” he said and waited. He sounded sober, his voice free of the thickness and slurring.
Josie rallied her courage. “Are you going to come up here, sweetheart?”
“Mom?” he said, his voice now childlike.
“Yes?” She could hear her thundering heart.
“I keep messing up. I can’t stay sober. I mean I’m clean right now, but it’s always on my mind to use again. I thought I’d take you up on it and get away from Dad and all this drama around here. The drug crowd. Two people I know died in the last couple weeks from overdoses. It’s that fake oxy. Pretty much pure fentanyl. It’s bad, Mom.”
She closed her eyes and chose her words as carefully as one would a last meal. “I can’t imagine how hard it is,” she said. “But I think you’ll love it here. There’s something so restoring here in these mountains.”
“Yeah. I remember going with you guys a few times. I was thinking I’d be there tomorrow night if that’s all right,” he said.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow! Her son was really coming to Asheville. She broke into a little dance, raising an arm in victory.
“I can’t wait to give you a giant hug. Oh, Finn. Everything’s going to be okay. I feel it.”
Josie heard a loud commotion in the background followed by a blast of rap music. “Tell Dottie her big bro is coming and give her a hug for me,” Finley said.
“I will. Be safe driving. Go the speed limit or lower.”
The music grew louder and she barely heard Finley say, “Gotta go, Mom. See you tomorrow,” as he rushed to hang up.
She didn’t like how things ended, but he was coming. That thunderous music could have meant anything. Maybe a YouTube channel abruptly clicking to life on his computer. And not the blasting score of a pre-drug binge as it had been during the dark years.
She returned to her daughter, her eyes shining. Relief flowed through her. And excitement. Finally, after more than a year, she’d see her son. She began singing “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley, forgetting she even knew this song until calling to mind Finley as a toddler bouncing up and down to the reggae beat. She wondered when she’d last sung anything.
“Bubby’s coming,” she said and sang those words as Dottie reached for the batter spoon.
“Bubby!” Dottie cried, waving the spoon and dropping a glob of dough. She ran in circles before grabbing Josie’s thighs.
As the cookies baked and the air took on a rich nutty fragrance, the scent Josie assumed happy homes emanated most afternoons, she thought it uncanny how she was here in her kitchen baking, almost as if knowing her son was coming. Peanut butter was his favorite.
“How about we get everything ready in the guest room? Make it look nice for him.”
Dottie sprinted to the back bedroom and returned with Mary-Mary. “Bubby wants her,” she said and placed the well-worn mermaid on the bed. As they happily prepared for Finley’s arrival, the small beige condo seemed to grow larger, and Josie’s mind swarmed with ideas of what to do during his visit.
In addition to the usual tourist attractions, she wanted to slip in a visit to Pog’s resort, which she couldn’t get out of her mind. It was just so idyllic. Maybe Finley would decide to get help if he saw the place firsthand. She knew better than to push it, but it couldn’t hurt to plant the seed.
As Josie stripped the bed and tossed sheets in the washer, taking special care to use fabric softener and the good detergent she’d bought on sale, she said a quick prayer, thanking God for her sixth sense which had alerted her to something major, an almost seismic shift, but not to the doom she’d come to expect.
Maybe this was the beginning of the end.
Of the drug life. Of her son’s suffering.
20
Josie woke up feeling like a new woman, a smile on her face before she even lifted her head from the pillow. Finley was coming today.
She chose her best outfit and arranged her hair (still in need of a major reno) into a loose, motherly knot. She’d given Ruby her credit card to shop at Publix with a list of all of Finley’s favorite foods: Doritos, Chili Cheese Fritos, dark cherries, red grapes because he thought the green ones were subpar, rib-eye steaks she’d take to the community grill next to the pool, jumbo potatoes, sour cream, and Silver Queen corn on the cob.
At work, she couldn’t still herself. She jumped from client to client, chirping like a teenager pumped with Ritalin.
“Why are you so giddy?” Pauline asked, a hand on her belly which was commencing a desperate rise from prenatal starvation. “Did Mommy finally give you a compliment?”
Josie would not allow Pauline to spoil the day. She’d been good to this woman, not gossiping about the baby who was no doubt struggling to survive Pauline’s near-empty placental pipeline. Today, she’d at least brought a little more to feed the fetus: two extra carrots in her little baggie and a tin of StarKist tuna. Guess that was her upgrade from a tablespoon of hummus. At least fetuses knew how to survive their hosts’ restrictions.
“I’m not sure why you always ask about my mother—or my father, for that matter,” Josie said, checking her reflection in the mirror and pleased her no-booze routine had done such wonders for her complexion. “It’s none of your concern.”
“Is that right?” Pauline asked, ignoring a young woman who was rummaging through the bronzer testers.
“I’m leaving early today,” Josie said. “Do you want to help her?” She nodded to the college girl dressed in Lilly Pulitzer’s brightest and tightest.
“Not especially,” she said, but then the Prada handbag caught her eye. “All right, I’ll check on her since you seem jacked on caffeine or whatever.”
Josie left her with the preppy girl and found Monica and Philly chatting at Lancôme. Megan had quit. She didn’t show up for a shift and never returned, never called or turned in a notice.
Josie danced over and propped her elbows on the counter while waiting for them to notice the big secret on her face.
“Girl,” Philly said. “You’re up to no good.” Monica stuffed her mouth with a bagel, covering her Brigman’s rule-breaking with a napkin.
“No, it’s good,” Josie said. “He’s coming.”
“Who? Oh, I know. You’re in love,” Philly said. “With that Pog dude.”
Monica swallowed her food. “I can see it,” she said. “She’s got that horny halo rising above her granny bun.”
Josie smiled. “I might be in what you’d call a fondness with Pog, but this is better.” The women waited, eyes big. “Finley. He’s coming today.”
“Oh, my Lord in Heaven,” Philly shouted. “I told you he’d come around.” She grabbed Josie in a hug that left her breathless. Monica set her bagel down and hugged Philly.
“Damn,” Philly said, breaking the embrace. “We look like those beetles I saw on my deck last week that honest to God were having a threesome. When’s he coming?”
Josie tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “He called last night and said he’d text when he was on the way. I told Pauline I needed to leave early.”
“She’s been acting strange,” Monica said. “I saw her frantically doing sit-ups in the dressing room.”
“God help her,” Philly said. “So unfair to that poor baby.”
“You heard about the baby?” Josie asked Monica.
“Everybody knows. Oh, Lord. She’s coming. Y’all shush a minute.”
Pauline stood before them like a judge holding a gavel. “Glad you all are having fun on Brigman’s time and dime,” she said. “Josie, you need to come back to our counter. It’s important with a capital I.”
Philly rolled her eyes. “I’d better head to the stockroom with a fucking capital S and get more gifts before the crowds come,” she said. “Find me later.” She looked at Pauline and said, “Get ready for plenty of fabulous announcements today.”
“I’m thrilled you’re leaving in a couple of weeks,” Pauline said, referring to Philly’s return to modeling.
“I’ll miss you so much, my little windbag,” Philly said, making a pouty face. “My little ray of sunshine no longer in my life.”
Pauline flipped her off as she walked away, Josie following. She wore flats today—a first—and clothes that draped instead of glued themselves to her body.
“It’s your phone,” she said. “It’s been buzzing nonstop for the last ten minutes. Whatever it is, don’t deal with it out here on the sales floor.”
Josie’s heart fell. She couldn’t bear it if Finley was canceling on her. She quickly picked up her cell and saw four missed calls and two voice mails from an Atlanta area code. A number she didn’t recognize. Her stomach fishtailed and she rushed from the store and into the parking area out front. Without listening to the voice mail, she jabbed the redial.
“Sergeant Pearce, APD.”
Josie backed against the building to keep from stumbling. Her gut churned and she couldn’t control the shaking. “This…this is Josie Nickels. I saw that you’ve been calling?”
“Is this Josette Hope Nickels residing in Asheville, North Carolina?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Nickels, I have some…there’s been an accident. An incident, if you will.”
She thought of the call from Finley last night, how he’d sounded good and everything had gone great until the music started. That sudden, deafening bass beat and her son rushing to hang up.
She slid down the storefront and sat in the mulch. She rocked from side to side, hand across her crashing heart. She released an anguished moan.
“Please try to remain calm. It might be a good idea to have someone there with you.”
This is it, she thought. This is the call, the one all the Mothers of Addicted Children feared most. The call saying her son had overdosed or died. She knew intuitively this wasn’t about larceny or DWI or an arrest for possession, all of which seemed simple and even desirable right now. Comparatively.
That feeling last night as she stood with her hands in the dough. That electrifying jolt of intuition when she knew without a doubt Finley was in trouble. And then thinking she was wrong when he sounded sober and said he was coming.
“I’d prefer you have someone there,” the sergeant said, voice firmer.
“Please,” she cried and everything around her—the people who walked by and stared as she wept in the boxwoods, the sound of cars coming and going, and the oppressive humidity making it harder to breathe—ballooned with intensity. “Is my baby alive?”
“Ms. Nickels, he is, but I need you to slow your breathing and focus, okay?”
“Yes,” she said, panting. Ruby breaths. Ruby breaths.
“Your husband—I’m sorry, your ex-husband, Dr. Frank Chapman, is in the ICU at Grady Hospital here in Atlanta. He’s in and out of consciousness and listed in critical condition. He’s alive but you need to—”
“Stop,” she said, and for a moment she closed her eyes, head bowed as if in prayer. She willed herself into reporter mode and that equanimity before delivering a tragic piece of news to her viewers. And then it hit her. This was about Frank and not her son. Finley was safe.
“Ma’am, we need you to get down here right away,” Sergeant Pearce said. “He’s been, well, he’s been shot.”
Josie bit into her cheek and tasted blood. “Shot? Frank?” Why would anyone call her about the very man who couldn’t sustain intimacy in the marriage for more than a month without running away? Just like her mother. The man who said to Finley almost daily, “Your mother chose to abandon us and leave us struggling financially.”
“Look, he isn’t going to want me anywhere near him, and if you knew Frank as well as I do—”
“Ms. Nickels, Mr. Chapman gave us this number and said to call you. I’m afraid he’s sustained multiple gunshot wounds. A couple are superficial, I’m told, but one’s serious. I’d highly advise you to get here as soon as possible…and…well, there’s more…Ms. Nickels? Are you there?”
Josie realized she hadn’t spoken for a full ten seconds. “I’m so…so sorry to hear this,” she managed to say, struggling to her feet and brushing off the dirt. “I can’t believe it. I mean, he was an artist, he is an artist…he’s a sculptor and a great one at that, but…I don’t know. Do people get shot over art deals? Or dime bags gone wrong?” She regretted saying this but seemed to have plunged into shock.
She walked back to the store on trembling legs and found an empty bench near the shoe department. Frank had been shot—shot!—and all she could think of was her son, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m probably not going to be able to come right away because my son is on his way here at the moment and—” What was she thinking? This was her husband of twenty years, and she knew she and Dottie needed to be there. Estrangement didn’t count when a family member gets shot.
“Ma’am, there’s another matter. I need you to please remain calm. Is there someone you can get to be with you?”
“I don’t have anybody,” Josie said. “Look, I thank you for your call, and I’ll be there to check on him as soon as I can pack a few things and get my daughter ready. Please call me with updates, or do you have a doctor’s name at the hospital?”
“Ms. Nickels, I need you to sit down and catch your breath. You tell me when you’re ready.”
“I am sitting,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Now I need you to focus on what I’m about to say. Do you understand, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the mother of Thomas Finley Chapman, a twenty-three-year-old white male born October 11, 1994?” Here it comes. She could feel its edges, the pounding fear kicking her with steel-toe boots. Her senses sharpened. She heard two sets of high heels marching down the center aisle and the air-conditioning units hum to life. Elton John crooned from the store’s speakers about Daniel and red taillights heading for Spain.
